


Not Much (But All I Would Ask For)

by J (jaywright)



Category: Broadchurch
Genre: F/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-06-23 18:01:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19706605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaywright/pseuds/J
Summary: "See you tomorrow, Miller."





	Not Much (But All I Would Ask For)

**Author's Note:**

> slight liberties taken with canon re: the events between S2 & S3.

"See you tomorrow, Miller."

It was all the acknowledgement he gave that he wasn't going anywhere, but for that moment, standing there with the sea air in her hair, watching him lope off down the road away from her, it was somehow enough.

It was months until she asked him - months in which Trish's case had faded into a memory for both of them, and Daisy's friendship with Chloe had settled her into the school in a way that left her almost forgetting how miserable it had been in the beginning, and Ellie's dad had moved out and almost immediately moved back in again - months where their lives had continued, and they'd orbited each other as if Hardy had never left, but it was still there between them, so eventually, she needed to ask.

"So you're staying, then?"

"What?" He'd been looking out over the beach, lost in thought, but his eyes slid over to her as she spoke.

"You," she elaborated. "Here."

"Today," he replied. "What's this about?"

She shrugged. "Last time you were here for this long, it seemed like you were just waiting for your first chance at escape. Just wondering if I should be expecting that again anytime soon."

"'t's different, isn't it?"

"I don't know," she said, "is it?"

"'Course it is," he said. "I left for my family. Now my family's here. So." He spread his hands. "I'm here."

"Sounds pretty simple, when you put it that way."

"It is." He eyed her. "What's this about, Miller?" he repeated.

She shrugged. "It's not about anything. Just wondering if it's nearly time for me to spend another few years wondering if you've keeled over in a ditch or not." The words were too sharp and biting, and she wanted to take them back, but they were out there now, and she felt more than saw him flinch beside her.

"That's not what you thought."

"I don't know _what_ I thought, Hardy," she replied.

"It wasn't personal."

"To you, maybe. But here I was, and the best I could do was google you every so often to see if there was an obituary." 

He sighed, standing abruptly. "I'm not going anywhere, Miller. I don't know what I've got to say to get you to believe that."

"I believe you," she said, then amended, "well, I believe that you believe it. Today."

"You don't get it, do you?" he asked.

"No!" she said, heated. "I don't! Explain it to me."

He shook his head. "I brought Daisy here because…" he couldn't finish the sentence, and something in her hated him for it.

"Go on, then."

"Well, it's a home, isn't it? She needed that. I'm never going to belong here, Miller, not the way that you do, but…" He made a deep frustrated sound. "I guess something made me _want_ to. Want to try, at least. Or at least to give Daisy the chance to try."

"Me!" she laughed harshly. "You don't know anything about me 'belonging' here, Hardy. Generations of my people have lived their lives here in this town, and I will be damned if I allow Joe Miller - " she spat his name like a curse " - to rob my children of that. But that doesn't mean it's been easy. It doesn't mean I belong here any more than you do."

"You do." His words were deep and heavy with meaning, and he was still standing, hard to look at with the sun setting behind him, so she didn't really try. He was looking off down the beach, and when he spoke next, she almost didn't process his words. "I could do with a drink," he said. "Do you want a drink?"

" _Yes_ ," she replied fervently, and didn't realize he was almost smiling until he offered her a hand up and she looked up at him.

"We could go to the pub," he said. "We've never been to the pub."

"You're taking the piss," she replied, but she took his hand and let his surprisingly strong grip help hoist her to her feet. 

"Yes," he agreed. "Or, well. No, not exactly. But I _am_ suggesting it because it's something you'd like and I will hate. It's a gesture. Take it."

"How magnanimous," she muttered, but she turned toward her favorite of the pubs in town, and he followed. It wasn't the biggest pub - because that one was too crowded, too full of people she didn't want to have to make conversation with - and it wasn't the one nearest to her house - because that had been Joe's pub, and the less thinking about that, the better - but it was cool and dark and served in generously large glasses, and when she opened the door to let Hardy in before her, not a single soul looked up at them.

They settled themselves at the far end of the bar, and Dave the barman was pleasant but distracted, bringing her the usual without her needing to ask, and barely blinking at Hardy's complete collapse over ordering a whiskey, before disappearing back toward the other end of the bar to continue whatever intense debate about football was happening there.

"Well," she said, "cheers, then," and lifted her pint to clink against his glass. He barely tipped his in her direction, then drank deeply.

They sat there in silence for so long that she finally turned to him. "This was _your_ idea," she pointed out. "Did you have something you wanted to say, or…"

"Can't we just get a drink without having something specific to say?"

"You? No."

He sighed. "Fine. 'm sorry, is all. That you worried, while I was away."

She raised her eyebrows at him. "Is that the first apology I've ever gotten from you?"

"No. Can't be."

"Might be."

He made a face. "I don't know, all right? Just take it, would you? I should have...I don't know. Done something."

"Yes. You should have. Not much of an apology, either, really. 'Sorry you worried'? Might as well say 'sorry _if_ I did something wrong,' like you don't think that you have."

"I don't know that I did," he admitted. "But you're all het up about it, and I don't want to make you worry about things that don't matter, so. An apology. An apology with a pint, even."

She sipped it appreciatively. "Well. It's still a bit of a shit apology, but I can't expect much better from you, I suppose, so thank you."

He made a face like he wanted to object, but instead he just drank his whiskey moodily, and when she finally caved to her need for conversation and started talking about their latest case, he went along with it, even actually replying now and then.

Eventually, he pulled some bills from his wallet, slapping them on the bar. "You done with that?" He nodded at her glass, which she'd nearly finished. 

She considered a moment, then took a very tiny, slow sip. "No." She settled back into her seat, and he groaned.

"Miller…"

She smiled sweetly at him. "You can go," she said. "You've made your gesture." She half expected him to take her at face value and leave, but he stayed, tracing seemingly random patterns across the bartop with a finger. 

She sighed, some of the fun going out of needling him, and gulped down the last of her beer. "Let's go, then," she said, standing. "Thanks for the pint."

"Anytime." It was the sort of thing people said by rote, but the thought that he was actually offering to do this again caught her off guard and she laughed.

"Come on, now," she said. "You don't mean that."

He gave her a lopsided smile. "Not really," he said, "no." 

He unfolded himself from the barstool and stood. She waved to Dave, and Hardy held the door for her on the way out. She expected him to give a perfunctory goodbye and turn towards town, but instead he settled into step beside her.

"You don't have to walk me home, you know," she said. "It was one pint. I'm not even tipsy."

"I know," he said, but stayed alongside her anyway. 

The sun had nearly finished setting while they were inside, and the wind off the sea was cool and soothing. They walked in companionable silence, and something about the moment made her oddly think of the times she had run into Maggie and Jocelyn out for a late night stroll, two people keeping somewhat awkward but compatible step with each other along the coast. It was dusk by the time they reached the house, and she could hear the low murmur of the TV through an open window. Hardy tucked his hands into his pockets, shifting uncomfortably.

"Night, then." 

She gave him a smile. "Night." She had almost made it to the door when she paused, turning back to him looking a little lost and fragile there on the sidewalk. "I know you didn't mean it," she said, "when you said you'd do this again, but for the record, I would. If you ever wanted."

"I won't," he said a little gruffly, and turned away. "But thanks. See you tomorrow, Miller."

"Tomorrow," she echoed, and waited until he'd disappeared around a bend in the road before she went inside.

Tomorrow came and went, followed by another tomorrow, and the tomorrows after that, and as weeks passed, she started to settle into the idea that maybe Hardy had meant what he had said, that maybe he wasn't going anywhere after all.

It was months later, the night he stuck his head out of his office as she was packing up her things and said, "Fancy a beer?" like it was something they did a few times a week.

She made a show of looking around behind her. "You couldn't possibly be talking to me," she said. "I have it on good authority that you will never set foot in a pub with me again."

His jaw tightened. "Just...stop by mine later, would you?" he asked. It was nearly a demand, and if he'd been in a lighter mood that day, she might have pushed back, given him a hard time, but he'd been tense and miserable since his first cup of tea that morning, so she just nodded.

"All right," she agreed.

She showed up on his porch that night as the sun was setting, and thrust a bag into his hand as he opened the door. "Here," she said, "brought you a wretched salad."

He blinked down at the bag fuzzily, then at the carton of chips in her hand. "Right." He stepped back, holding the door for her, and the fuzzy expression was immediately explained by the glass and bottle sitting in the middle of a pile of files and notes on the coffee table. 

"Got started without me, I see," she said mildly, and he didn't respond, disappearing into the kitchen for a moment and reappearing with a bottle in his hand.

"Here," he said, and she was surprised to note that it was the same brand she always ordered at the pub. "Catch up." He slumped back into the couch and tucked into his salad, and she settled into one of the chairs, munching on her chips and peering over the files. 

She felt a wave of concern wash over her as she realized what they were. "What's all this, then?" she asked, and he looked at her sharply.

"You can bloody well see what it is."

"All right," she conceded. "I'll rephrase. What's got you drinking about Sandbrook? Now, after all this time?"

"Time," he repeated, giving a hoarse laugh, and he leaned forward, one hand rifling through a folder as his other reached for his glass. He thrust a page at her, and she felt her face go pale as she looked it over.

"Oh." Today's date, years before. She'd seen the pictures, back when they were working the case, but the years had dulled the memory of Pippa's waterlogged form, and she felt ill all over again. "Hardy. I'm so sorry."

"Don't," he said sharply. "I just...Daisy's staying at the Latimers', and - "

"You don't have to explain yourself," Ellie broke in. "I'm here."

He fell quiet, drinking moodily before muttering, "Thanks," in a voice utterly devoid of any actual gratitude. 

"Anytime," she replied, and he scrutinized her, an almost bitter smile playing at his lips. 

"You actually mean that, don't you?" he asked. "That's the sort of thing that someone like you says and _means_."

"Wouldn't say it if I didn't mean it, would I? What's the point in that?"

"I could ask you to drop anything," he said, sounding incredulous, "and you'd just...be here."

"No," she objected. "Look, we've done that before, during all this." She gestured to the table. "And it wasn't good for either of us. So no, it's not about doing anything you ask. But if you _need_ something? Need _someone_? Of course I'll be there. That's what - " she didn't quite know how to finish that, because her first instinct had been to end with " - _friends do_ ," but she wasn't quite sure that was the word for them. _Family_ was too familiar, _partners_ too loaded. "It's what we do," she settled on.

He laughed. "Funny definition of ' _we_ ' you've got," he said. "I don't know that I'd do the same."

"You have," she pointed out. "You do. You've been there for me through - " she couldn't finish, but he didn't make her.

"Had to be, didn't I?"

"Well." She shrugged like _there it is_. "Same." She set aside her empty chip carton, turning her attention to her beer.

"'t's not the same, though. You don't have to be here."

"And you didn't have to be at court with me all those days," she pointed out. "You gave your testimony early. You could have fucked off and left me there, and you didn't."

"Had to see it through, didn't I?"

"Yes, well. I have to see this through." She gestured at the table, and her brow furrowed. "Here," she said, "actually," and she began packing the files back into their folders, tucking the photos away. She could almost see some of the tension draining from him as she settled a neat pile in the corner of the table. "We _did_ see it through," she reminded him. "It's over. It's been over for years." She finished the last of her beer and stood, stretching. "C'mon," she said, holding out a hand to him. "Let's sit outside."

"What?" He looked at her hand as if it were a foreign object he'd never seen before.

"Get some air," she elaborated. "Change of scenery." She wiggled her fingers insistently, and he reached for them almost hesitantly, not really using her for leverage to push himself off the couch, but keeping his hand in hers for an awkward moment after he'd stood.

"Er," he finally said, taking his hand back and reaching for his glass and bottle. "Outside, then?"

She cleared away their rubbish, ducking into the kitchen to bin it and retrieve another beer. It was tidier than she'd expected him to be, neat and organized, and she wondered if it was for Daisy's benefit or if he was actually less scatterbrained than he seemed. 

He was already outdoors by the time she returned to the living room, and she joined him, stretching out on the beach chair beside him. 

"'s nice," he said, gesturing out at the water with his glass. "Missed this, when I wasn't here."

"I would, too," she agreed.

He turned on his side, looking at her. "You ever think of leaving? After?"

"Of course I did," she said. "Still do, some days, when someone eyes me up in the grocery and I just _know_. They're standing in the frozen aisle thinking ' _she must have known_ ' and ' _she botched the investigation deliberately_ ' and ' _under her own roof, while she had sons!_ ' Those days, there's nothing I want more in the world than to pack up the boys in the car and just _go_."

"You never did, though."

"I did, actually," she said. "Nearly, once."

His eyes went wide. "You didn't!"

"Almost," she admitted. "Mum had just passed, and Tom was having trouble at school, and...I looked. I spent a weekend up the coast, looking at houses, and I came home all ready to make some plans, pack up, and go." 

He looked stunned. "What happened?"

She turned her attention to her beer, suddenly realizing he had nowhere to go with this. "Didn't do it," she said evasively, but he sat up, turning to her, all gangly limbs and probing stare.

"Miller."

She sighed. "Walked into work Monday morning," she said, "and there you were. Couldn't very well turn and leave at the sight of you, could I?" She gave a false little smile. "Didn't want to give you the impression I was intimidated or anything."

He was gaping at her. "I didn't know," he said finally.

"No one knew. Well," she amended, "I talked it over with Dad briefly. But there was no reason for you to know."

"You stayed, though."

"I stayed. Maybe for some of the same reasons you came back."

He looked out at the sea. "This?" he asked.

"This," she agreed. "And for my family. And because it's home." 

She watched the way his expression shifted as he debated whether to push back on that characterization of his reasons, but he didn't. He drank quietly instead, very carefully not looking at her. "What's that even mean, anyway?" he said finally, his accent a little thicker than usual, words a little slower. "Home."

She breathed out a laugh. "Hell if I know," she said. "My whole idea of it went straight to shit a few years back. For me, it's my boys. Everything else is negotiable."

He nodded slowly, carefully. "'t's different for me," he said, "since Daisy lived with her mum for so long. She's part of it, but she can't be all of it. She'll be off to uni soon, and I don't know that that'll leave me entirely without a home."

"No," Ellie agreed. "That's healthier, to have more to it. Community, and place, and - " she wanted to say _friends_ , thinking of the Latimers, but it felt almost insensitive to mention friends to someone who didn't seem to have any. "Work, I suppose, or something with some purpose."

"Purpose," he repeated. "You think we have that, Miller? After everything?"

"I have to, don't I? Would just about fall apart, otherwise."

"Yeah," he agreed vaguely. "You thought about leaving, but...'d you ever think…" he trailed off, leaning back in his chair and pouring some more whiskey into his glass. "You ever think of quitting?"

She blinked. "No." She felt a little startled that the thought had never occurred to her. After the failed promotion, the trial, everything she had gone through, she _should_ have considered it, should have lost her faith in the process, in herself, in all of it, but somehow she never had. "I never did. Isn't that strange?"

"Yes," he said.

She eyed him. "Do you?" she asked. "Have you?"

"Every day."

She stared. "Every day?" she repeated incredulously.

"Not _every_ day," he amended. "Some days we do good. We do well _and_ we do good. We keep someone from hurting others, or hold someone accountable for what they've done. But some days - " He sighed. "Some days there's just so much arbitrary going on between it all, so much randomness and human error and corruption, and nothing is clean or simple or _right_. I don't want to do it anymore."

"Then why do you?"

"Because of the days when it does work. And because…" he trailed off, looking into the darkness. "Because if you of all people can still believe in the system, who am I to decide to walk away?"

"Maybe I'm just naive," she pointed out.

"Maybe." He gave her a half smile. "Probably. But maybe I need that. A little of it, at least. Something that's not - " he gestured at himself.

"Well." She gave him a real, honest smile in return. "Maybe I need something that _is_ \- " and she repeated his gesture.

He looked momentarily pleased before it faded into just looking flustered, and then he was staring into his glass as if it held the secrets of the universe, sitting up, looking agitated. She almost interrupted him, but he raked his fingers back into his hair, eyes going a little wild as he stared out at the darkened sea, like he was wrestling some kind of internal demon right there next to her. He opened his mouth, closed it again, shook his head. He seemed to come to some kind of conclusion then, though, because he drank down a great heavy gulp and turned to face her.

His words came out in a rush, like he'd been gripping them so tightly for so long that as soon as his resolve cracked even the slightest bit, they flowed out of him. "I came back for you." 

She felt like the air had been knocked out of her. "What?" she finally managed.

The dam broken, the words kept tumbling from him. "You keep on about my leaving, my coming back, my belonging here and such, and you just keep not understanding anything about it, not really. I keep saying it without saying it, and you keep not getting it, and it's this cycle, see? It's endless and I can't keep doing it. I left because my family wasn't here, and...and I came back because - " he choked a little on the words, but kept going. "Because my family _was_ here. Was still here, without me." He shuffled around, busily gathering his bottle and glass, standing abruptly. "You don't have to say anything, in fact I'd rather you didn't, but I need you to let it be, because I don't have a better answer than that. I'm here because you're here, Miller."

And he bustled away inside, leaving her there on his beach chair feeling like he'd just tossed her bodily into the ocean with nothing to hold onto.

She finished her beer in a daze, and she stood, setting the bottle carefully by the door and turning in the direction of home, but his house was so still and so quiet, and she was nearly certain that he was still standing in his kitchen, trapped there until she left, so she turned to rap on the sliding door instead.

"That's not how this works, Hardy," she called. There was no answer. "You don't get to just say something like that and walk away." 

She pushed the door open, but didn't enter, and she heard a weak, "Go home, Miller," from the kitchen.

"I will," she said. "I am. But not before I say this. You didn't listen to a word I said tonight, did you? I was _leaving_. This place wasn't home anymore, it wasn't where I wanted my family to be. And then? You came back and it _was_ again. So you think you're somehow special in this? You think you're alone, because you need someone? Grow up. This isn't a one way street, and it certainly isn't all about you. You're here because I'm here? Well guess what. I'm here because you're here, too. And that's just something we're both going to have to live with. Here. Together." She grabbed the door handle. "Good night, Hardy. Try not to drink yourself to death," and she gave the door a satisfying slam.

She made it halfway down his drive before the tears came.

The morning was a misery. She hadn't had too much to drink, ultimately, but she was wrung out and exhausted, her eyes tired and sore. She didn't let herself look up once as Hardy passed her desk and shuffled back a few minutes later clutching a mug of tea like a lifeline. Ellie of a few years ago might have tried, might have worn him down with weaponized cheer and targeted wit, but that Ellie hadn't lived here in a long time, so instead she kept her head down, and was more productive than she generally was on any three given days.

She expected him to avoid her all day, but instead she looked up just after lunch, and there he was, looming over her, rubbing the back of his neck in agitation. "Yes?" she prompted.

"Look." If he were someone else, it might have been followed up by _we need to talk_ , but because he was Alec Hardy, he said, "Tonight?" instead, and looked at her expectantly.

"Yours?" she asked.

"Beach," he replied, and grimaced a little. "Daisy."

"Right." She turned back to her work. He hovered for a moment like he had something else to say, but eventually he shifted uncomfortably and slunk back to his office.

She left before he did, and stopped for dinner on her way to the sea wall, so he was there when she arrived. His legs were stretched out long in front of him, head tipped back, eyes closed in the fading sunlight. "Miller," he said as she approached, without opening his eyes.

She settled in next to him, close enough that she could practically feel the tension radiating off him through the pretense of relaxation.

"Was a bit of a mess last night," he said. "Shouldn't have said some things."

"No?" she asked. "Which things?"

That made him tilt his head and open one eye at her. "Take your pick."

She shrugged. "I don't seem to remember you saying much of anything objectionable."

"Ugh, Miller," he grumbled, straightening. "Stop being _nice_. It was unfair, laying that on you, and I shouldn't have said it."

"No," she objected, "what you shouldn't have done was run off like Fred having a tantrum afterward." He grimaced. "You didn't give me the chance to process or respond, and _that_ was unfair." She turned to him, her leg brushing his, and after a moment he leaned in to mirror her, finally looking her in the eye. "Let's try this again, shall we?" she offered.

He winced. "Right now?"

"Right now," she agreed. "Here."

He closed his eyes, and when he opened them, they fell anywhere but on her. "I…" she reached for his hand, and it was shaking. "I can't."

"Fine," she said. "I will." His fingers tightened on hers. "Joe ruined this town for me." She could tell by the way Hardy's eyes flickered to hers that it wasn't where he had expected her to go with this. "He took everything familiar and comfortable in my life, and he burned it to ash. You don't need me to tell you what it was like, you were here for it. You were here, with me, when no one else could be. When Beth was too hurt, and Tom was too young, and everyone in town thought I'd bungled it all on purpose. You know that part.

"But the part after it, when you left, and Beth was still busy trying to put her own family back together, and Tom and Fred needed me to be strong for them, and Mum was ill, and the town couldn't move on...you weren't here for that. You don't know that part, and that was what got to be too much. It was so much, for so long, and sometimes I would wonder if maybe I would have been able to handle it all, if you'd still been here.

"Maybe I would have, maybe not, but it doesn't matter, because I _didn't_ handle it. My mum died, and I decided to run away." He looked like he wanted to say something, but she continued, not letting him. "I left the boys with Dad, and I took off. I was ready to put my money down, whatever it took, to pack our lives and go, to leave behind generations of history, and our friends, and our whole lives. And of all the things to stop me, it wasn't Tom, it wasn't the Latimers, or my job, or some connection left to this place from before Joe ruined everything. It was you. It was walking into the station, and seeing that you had come back."

"But…" His fingers were still wrapped around hers, almost forgotten between them, " _why_?"

"I don't know," she admitted. "You're stressful to be around, and you're _not_ nice, and you make everything more complicated than it needs to be, but...you stabilize me, somehow. I can't explain it. Maybe it's just because you came here when you did, because you went through the Latimer case with me, and I closed the Sandbrook case with you. Maybe that's all it is." There was warmth spreading through her from the press of his fingers, so she let herself add, "I don't think that's it, but whatever it is, it was enough. I could _deal_ again. I could put up with the looks in the grocery, the way Beth still sometimes doesn't trust me, the nightmares Tom gets. Somehow, working with you again was that one predictable thing that made all the unpredictabilities bearable."

He breathed out slowly, extracting his hand from hers and raking his fingers back through his hair. "Miller…" he said, seemingly at a loss, and suddenly she couldn't sit still anymore, couldn't look at him sitting there pained and awkward.

"C'mon," she said, standing abruptly. "Let's walk."

He stood almost gratefully, like he was as restless as she was, as desperate for something to look at other than her struggling for words. They set off down the beach, not quite close enough that their arms brushed, but near and steady and together. The sun was setting, clouds rolling in over the sea, and in the distance, thunder rumbled.

"Going to be in for it," Hardy remarked. "Probably shouldn't go too far."

"Probably," Ellie replied cheerfully, and kept walking. He kept pace with her, and she could see out of the corner of her eye that a faint smile twisted his lips. "Well?" she prompted eventually, when they had left the boardwalk behind, and were far onto the sand, away from everything and everyone. "Your turn."

He sighed. "I don't have - " he shrugged, gangly and wide. "I don't have some big speech, Miller. Trust me, this'd be easier if I did. It was all just like I said last night. I left, and I missed you. Not the town, not the people, not the job, not really. Just...you."

"Then why did it take you _two years_ to come back?" Ellie demanded. "You didn't call. You didn't even answer when _I_ called!"

"I couldn't."

"You could've. You didn't."

"I couldn't think of anything to say!"

"That's not the point! I couldn't've cared less what you said, Hardy! You could have read the damn phone book! I just wanted to hear from you, to know you were all right. You don't get it, do you? The whole time you were here, I thought you were going to _die_. And then you're just _gone_. A quick goodbye, and then nothing."

"I'd had the surgery," he objected. "I was fine!"

"Right, and I'm sure you would have been very forthcoming if it hadn't worked, wouldn't you have?"

He froze. "You thought - "

"I didn't _know_. I didn't know because you didn't _tell_ me. Because you never tell me anything until you need my help so desperately that you can't _not_ tell me. So yes, I thought it was a possibility. That you were slinking off to die because you didn't want to _inconvenience_ anyone. Wouldn't you have, if you were me?"

"No." His voice was low and quiet and strained. "I...I thought you'd be glad to be rid of me."

"Glad to be - " she repeated, her voice rising. "You are _unbelievable_ , Alec Hardy!"

"I vex you!" he objected. "I make your life difficult, and I annoy you, and I thought - "

"You thought wrong! You _decided_ to think wrong because you never bothered to ask. Christ." She kicked a rock, sending it rattling across the sand ahead of them. "I _called_ you. I tried to check up on you! Why would I do that if I thought myself better off without you?"

He shrugged. "I thought it was one of those polite things. You've always been better about all that - " he waved a hand " - social rot. I thought maybe this was just another one of those things that people do that I don't really get. Like first names, or small talk."

Even burning with frustration, Ellie couldn't help laughing at that. "Yes, those mysterious human concepts. God, how were you ever married?"

He gave her a lopsided smile. "Something to do with an uncommonly persistent woman, I think."

She smiled back, but sobered quickly. "I'm sorry, you know," she said. "I never said it, but I _am_ sorry things didn't work out for you and Tess."

"I'm not," he said. "I tried. We both did. It just...it wasn't right. Maybe it never was. Certainly isn't now. We can both be Daisy's family, but we're not each other's."

"And that's okay?" she asked carefully.

"It's okay," he confirmed.

She looked at him, feeling the first drops of rain start to pepper her skin, and she could feel the electricity building, in the air and between them. "So, what you said last night. About family. About...me."

He swallowed. "I meant it." He said it like the words were breaking him from the inside. "I shouldn't have said it, but I meant it."

"Why _not_?" she demanded. "What do you think is going to happen, if you say what you mean every once in a while? You're going to be struck down right there where you stand?" He looked meaningfully upward at the storm clouds forming above them and gave a comical little shrug. She laughed, low and indulgent, but shook her head at him. "You can't be a closed book a hundred percent of the time, to everyone. You just can't. I know you'd prefer it that way, it'd be neater and simpler, but nothing _is_ neat or simple, Hardy. You know that. _We_ know that." She stepped closer to him, into his space, and from that close she could see that he was barely even drawing in any breath, staring at her as if she was _everything_. "Life's a mess. And historically, I'd say we've handled messes better when we're together."

"You're...not wrong." His voice was so low she could barely hear it, unfocused. "I'm...good for you, then?" He seemed to be struggling with the concept, rewinding her words and scrutinizing them carefully. "I'm not...look, the last thing you need is another man in your life who's a burden, who needs more from you than you get from him, and - "

"Is _that_ your worry?" she asked, nearly pulling away from him with a sudden burst of incredulous laughter. "You think I'm going to think you're _Joe_?"

"No!" he objected. "It's just. Miller, you're...you're _remarkable_. And you deserve…" he waved his hands. "I'm not sure that I even know what you deserve. But it would be a damn sight better than _this_."

"Hardy," she said. "I'm going to hug you."

"I. Oh." He looked down at her, brow furrowing uncomfortably, but he held his hands out a little stiffly toward her, like an invitation.

She folded herself against him, and she felt the breath leave him in a long sigh, like all the tension he had been holding was melting away into the sand, washed off by the rain that was starting to fall harder against their skin. She buried her face against his chest, and felt one of his hands come up to tuck into her hair, holding her there, while his other arm went tight around her, steadying her, gentle and strong. It was a moment before his head rested against hers, hesitant at first, but when she let out a quiet sound of approval and pulled him closer, she could feel his cheek pressing to the top of her head, his breath warm and unsteady through her hair.

She didn't know how long they stood there like that, and she didn't quite cry with relief and joy and something else indescribable with her face pressed to his coat, but her breath went ragged and emotional for a few moments, and he held her through it, his fingers combing so softly through her hair.

"Miller," he said finally, and she tightened her fingers in the back of his coat.

"Not yet?" she requested. "Please, just…"

"We're getting soaked," he pointed out. "But no, that's not what I was going to say. Miller, I…" he paused for long enough that she thought he wasn't going to continue, until the rest of the words came out all in a rush. "I want to kiss you."

She laughed, tilting her head up to him, blinking in the rain. "Are you asking my permission?"

She expected him to laugh, too, to be smiling down at her, but his face was sober and intent as he said fervently, " _Yes_."

There was a part of her that wanted to take the decision away from him by leaning up on her toes to catch his lips with hers, but instead, she just held his gaze and nodded, and felt his hand slide around from her hair to cup her face, his thumb tracing through the raindrops on her cheek, brushing them away. She expected his kiss to be hesitant and careful, but after looking at her for what felt like forever, tracing his eyes from hers down to her lips, he swept in to press his mouth to hers with a desperation she hadn't thought him capable of. His breath was ragged, his lips warm and soft and surprisingly insistant, and his hands were so wide and firm as they held her steady, as she kissed him back and leaned into his touch, and lost herself entirely.

It was a clap of thunder that finally pulled them apart, Ellie letting out a yelp and Hardy's hands going tight against her almost defensively, and they broke apart, laughing breathlessly. He reached down to tangle his fingers in hers, though, and she kept her hand in his as she gestured back toward town.

"We should - "

"Yeah," he agreed. "Mine's closer. You can get dried off, wait out the rain, if you want."

"You said Daisy - "

"Didn't want to fight with you in front of her," he said. "I hope we're done with that part."

"For now," she acknowledged, and he grinned.

"Yeah, all right. For now."

They ran most of the way, the storm pursuing them, and by the time they got to Hardy's, Ellie couldn't quite tell where her skin ended and her heavy, sopping clothes began. He stopped her just before the porch, in the shadow of the house, grabbing her by the arm and pulling her close to him. She felt the breath leave her with the kind of excitement she hadn't felt in years, and she let herself lean back against the siding, looking up at him with an expression that made his eyes widen.

"Christ, Miller," he muttered. "Not _now_. Not here."

"I know," she said, but she pulled him in to kiss her, and his hands against her skin where they pushed up the hem of her shirt were frantic. "I'll get Dad to take the boys somewhere this weekend on a little holiday or something."

"That'd be nice," he murmured against the skin of her neck, pressing a heavy kiss there. "But no, I just...we're going in there - " he jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the door, "and...I need to know what this is, Miller. I've always been shit at lying to Daisy, and - "

"You don't need to," she said. "Unless you want to. This is...well, we don't know what this is yet, do we? We'll have to figure that out. But I'm part of the family you're here for, and Daisy's part of the family you're here for, so I think we can do that together, no?"

"Yes," he said, and kissed her again, sweet and quick. "Okay, yes. Let's get warm."

" _Please_ ," she said. "I'm going to make a cup of tea the size of my _face_. You do have a mug the size of my face, don't you?"

"Hmm…" He held a hand up, measuring. "We'll make do."

She let him lead her into the house, his hand wide and warm against her back, and they passed out the rest of the storm cozy and snug in dry clothes (his, too long and too worn and absolutely perfect) on the couch, mugs of tea before them, Daisy barely even glancing at them as she breezed in and out of the kitchen for a glass of water.

Ellie lingered after the storm, waiting until the moon had come out from behind the clouds, too comfortable on his couch with his legs tossed across her lap, arguing over the methods on a procedural on the telly. Eventually, though, her dad was texting that the boys were on their way to bed, and she finally untangled herself from Hardy, gathering up her bag of wet clothes from the floor. 

"Night, then," he said, walking her to the door, standing too close beside her, not quite reaching for her until she leaned up to give him a soft kiss. Then his eyes closed, his fingers coming to rest against her side, and he made a quiet, pleased sound into her mouth.

"Night," she agreed.

He stood at the door and watched her go, and something about the moment struck her, the memory still so vivid and real of bursting into tears right in the middle of the drive, so she turned back to wave at him, and he was smiling so tenderly and honestly back at her.

"See you tomorrow, Miller," he said, and his whole heart was in the words.

It wasn't until she'd turned the bend toward her house that she thought of all the other times he'd said that, of the way he dismissed her with it nearly every time he saw her, and she tried to remember if he'd said it the same way every time, like a promise.

As she considered it, she was almost positive that he had.


End file.
